


Too Much of a Good Thing (Can Be Wonderful)

by Predatrix



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Anal Sex, Bukkake, Foursome - M/M/M/M, How Many is Too Many?, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Norrell is Incredibly Lucky, Oral Sex, Spanking, Threesome - M/M/M, Too Many Childermasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 16:52:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4572246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Predatrix/pseuds/Predatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The following excellent (cheesy infomercial-style) prompt was given on the kink-meme:<br/><b>Have you ever been a tiny, fussy, nervous, spoiled wreck of a man who has this one really amazing servant? Have you come to rely upon that servant utterly in all your day-to-day business? Have you ever run into the problem that, despite his other very useful qualities, your very useful servant has never yet succeeded in splitting himself in twain to be able to be in two places at once? Isn’t it just beyond aggravating that your lazy servant completely fails to be of use to you in many important matters because he’s too busy doing other things you told him to do? Don’t you wish there was a solution to this all-too-common problem?</b></p>
<p>
  <b>Well, have I got news for you! Magic (TM) can provide all sorts of solutions to this and many other common problems with your household staff.<br/></b>
</p>
<p>So here we have Mad!Scientist Norrell talking himself into something that definitely sounds like a bad idea out of a mixture of academic curiosity and practicality.</p>
<p>He really doesn't deserve it to go this well...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Much of a Good Thing (Can Be Wonderful)

Some might have said Norrell had quite enough Childermass to be going on with.

In the morning, Childermass would attend him as a valet. Not that Childermass was especially good at being a valet in normal terms, it must be said; he had no sense of the fashionable perfection most gentlemen required their personal servants to keep up with. But he _had_ been getting Mr Norrell ready in the morning for some years, and knew exactly how he preferred to be dressed, how he detested new or fashionable clothes (an unexpected seam where he would prefer soft fabric was enough to make him thoroughly miserable for the entire day), and how he preferred not to be talked-to (while reserving the right to get into a conversation about magical theory if he felt like it). All of these benefits would, he imagined, be lacking if he had to have the sort of person society thought would make a good valet, and when Childermass was away on Mr Norrell’s business, Mr Norrell was always disappointed (and occasionally slightly upset) by how thoughtless the other servants would be about his perfectly reasonable requests.

Then Childermass would go and make sure his breakfast was the way he wanted it. Norrell had lost track of the number of cooks and maidservants he’d gone through in trying to communicate his likes and dislikes in the way of food and drink, because they usually had the most unreasonable attachments to normal cooking-times (Norrell liked to be able to choose at the time exactly how long to cook an egg for), let alone properly-set tables and regular meal-times. All of them seemed to regard it as unreasonable that Norrell occasionally wanted his dinner at ten o’clock at night. Norrell found that equally unreasonable: it wasn’t as if he completely forgot his meals often, so it seemed rather lazy to him that his well-paid kitchen-staff objected to preparing him the occasional late meal. It wasn’t as if he was making _them_ eat dinner at odd hours, after all.

Norrell would eat his breakfast while sorting his correspondence, and permit Childermass to go and eat whatever fuelled his omni-competence for the day. Then Childermass would come back to the library, and they would answer any necessary letters and sort-out what journeys Childermass needed to go on that week, plotting a course between bookshops and private sales and anywhere else a useful book might happen to be.

Quite often, Childermass would set off in search of something, and Norrell would find himself calling Childermass to reach him a book down, or go and get him a hot drink, or help him with the phrasing of a letter to somebody he did not know (which would cause vast and unaccountable offence if he did it himself without asking Childermass to look over the wording)—and only then realise, with an annoyed shrug, that Childermass was somewhere else. How inconvenient! There really ought to be more than one of him!

While such a turn of phrase is a mere momentary fancy to you or I, it may be considerably more dangerous in the mind of a magician. Especially since the rest of Mr Norrell’s days were filled by more and more instances where Childermass would have been _so much more useful_ if he’d managed to be in two places at once. There were too many times when Childermass couldn’t do something for Mr Norrell because he was already doing something for Mr Norrell. Small wonder that an interesting spell came to mind. It was not respectable, and nor was it in Sutton-Grove, two flaws that would normally go far in discommending a spell to Mr Norrell, but it _was_ interesting.

The description was simply: “For Doubling a Person”, and the necessary requirements involved positively ridiculous collections of herbs and weeds and other natural things. Nearly everything he’d ever heard of to symbolise human organs, as it suggested, doubled in quantity. Lungwort (four), spleenwort (two), liverwort (two), walnuts (two, and since the walnut was to symbolise the brain he was put to the trouble of choosing unusually large examples), toothwort (sixty-four)…and that was just the start of it. He got so interested in the problem that he actually _had_ collected all of the possibilities mentioned in a couple of months, even elaborating on a few details, and made up a couple of wooden formes in roughly the shape of human beings, which he put in an unused store cupboard. He divided the ‘ingredients’ between the two ‘persons’—and then stopped to think, _why am I doing this? Should I be doing this?_ But it was so interesting! And there were no fairies involved in any stage of the production, so surely it could not be so wrong? He wasn’t duplicating a bad person, after all: no new Herod or Napoleon would arise from his labours, just a person so useful that it could be well argued that the world could do with two of him!

The difficulty (apart from the collection of ingredients) was that once the necessary conditions were met, the working had to be done by visualisation in dreams. He felt vaguely uncomfortable with that, it was un-English, or at very least un-respectable, but one could say that the business was practically complete by now. It would be a waste to throw away all that work! If there _were_ to be a problem, he could throw away the ingredients then, and it would very probably end the whole spell, so he wasn’t really risking anything.

As soon as the original Childermass had gone away on one of his trips, Norrell went to the store cupboard in his dream. After a little effort, he could see Childermass’s body almost superimposed on the ‘frame’ of ingredients, and there was something he found compelling, transgressive, almost slightly frightening about being able to do this thing, this very strange thing that maybe no other person had ever done. He reached out his dream-hand; yes, there was that dark, wild hair in its queue, there was the narrow face, there were broad shoulders and long legs and a shape that surely wouldn’t fit into the small bounds of the frame. Under his dream-hand it quivered. He drew his hand down the body quickly: the heat of the body seemed to rise to his hand as if it quickened, sought to become alive. He shuddered, and drew back his hand, a little afraid. His fingers were tingling, and he was not sure if he wanted to repeat the gesture or run away.

And the other frame was equally filled with Childermass, but that one appeared to be comfortably asleep, except that it seemed to notice his presence, as Childermass himself often seemed to when he was about to request something. That Childermass opened his dark eyes and said, “Sir? Do you need me?” and Norrell was suddenly pierced with the urge to say, _yes,_ except he did not quite know what he wanted Childermass to do. All the things he had already decided he needed an extra Childermass for were daylight things.

 

The next morning, when Childermass had dressed him as usual, and Norrell had performed his usual shrug-and-twitch to make sure no stray buttons or strings or seams were in the wrong place, Childermass pulled him gently close, humming a song that could have been a lullaby. It was surprisingly pleasant, and he let his eyes close. The overwork he’d been doing lately, what with his _actual_ work and the ‘doubling’ spell on top of that, had left him tired. Then Childermass took his wig off, which ought to have made him feel exposed, since he was so used to having his head covered and he felt the cold, and ran warm fingers gently through his short, soft hair. It ought to have worried him: the last time any one had touched his wig it had been the fairy, casting a cold and ungenerous eye on how oddly Christian men falsified even such a simple thing as their hair. Instead, he spent several minutes happily enjoying the sensation of being petted, stroked, in a way that should have been quite alien to him, and then Childermass put his wig back on, straightened it tenderly, and nudged him to his normal standing posture.

And Norrell thought, rather dazedly, _What just happened?_ and then _Oh dear. What did I get wrong?_ because once he remembered that there were two Childermasses, he remembered that stroking his master’s hair was nowhere in the standard parameters for a Childermass.

He said, “Childermass? Why did you do that?” not expecting a particularly rational answer, and certainly not: “I’m the nice one, sir.”

“The nice one?” he echoed, playing for time.

“You wanted two of us,” Childermass said, and Norrell thought, _Oh, I’m an idiot. I made two copies when what I meant was one additional copy._

He started looking things up frantically in his books as Childermass went out.

 

Then the door opened, and Childermass came back in.

For some reason, unlike a moment ago, when Childermass had helped him relax, Norrell felt no desire to shut his eyes. He could hardly take his eyes off him, in fact. Childermass’s eyes seemed to burn with some sort of dark, suppressed fire. His hair was wild, his clothes subtly dishevelled—had he come back in, from horseback, in his dirt? He must be wearing his riding boots, Norrell thought, because Childermass looked taller than he expected. Looked more… _everything_ than he expected, in fact.

Childermass favoured his ostensible master with a sharp glance that seemed to sum him up from head to foot and not find much worth commenting on, and Norrell thought, _But he’s my servant!_ and then, _Am I quite sure of that?_

He started, realising that the original Childermass was quite probably miles away by now, and sat down heavily behind his desk, beginning to feel the need of some sort of bulwark against whatever made this Childermass so unusual.

Childermass smiled, not entirely nicely, and said. “That’s right, hide yourself if you’re nervous.” (Norrell waited for a ‘sir’ that did not come) “I’m the _other_ one.”

“What shall I call you?” said Norrell.

“I’m the sensible one. Since I’ve seen t’other one’s going to run himself ragged catering to your whims and fancies…sir.”

“I do not have whims, nor fancies, Childermass!” said Norrell sharply. “I am an entirely reasonable employer.”

Childermass smiled, a smile that seemed to have slightly more teeth in it than usual, and said, “You haven’t heard what they say about you when they leave. I’m the only one with the patience to stay, and right at the moment I’m not feeling altogether patient.”

He didn’t look at all patient, in fact. Norrell’s heart was beating fast, and he suddenly had an absolutely _raging_ cock-stand—it was a good thing he was behind the desk—and he was both terrified and exhilarated. He had no idea how this unknown Childermass might express his impatience. He almost wanted to find out, except he also wanted to run away.

Childermass looked at him as though he could see through the desk to quite how scared and aroused Norrell was feeling, and Norrell took his hands off the desk before they could start shaking, and stealthily adjusted himself in his clothing (resisting the temptation to do more than that).

“Somebody needs to teach you a lesson,” said Childermass, “before none of your servants can cope with you playing funny-buggers with everything from dressing to dinner-time.”

“I keep _telling_ people I only have dinner at ten o’clock at night very rarely, when I have forgotten,” said Norrell, “I honestly cannot see why that should be any trouble to anyone.” He tried _not to even think_ about being taught a lesson, which of course meant it was the only thing he could think about.

“Yes, that’s the trouble with you,” said Childermass. “You honestly _can’t_ see that they can’t settle to a routine if you might ring at any hour for any thing.”

“Well, if they’d told me that…”

“Would you have listened?” shot back Childermass, with a look maybe even more piercing than the real one could have managed.

“It’s their job to fulfil all the necessary requirements,” said Norrell, sulkily. “I pay them well enough.”

Childermass looked at him again. “Obviously you really _do_ need me to teach you a lesson,” he said, dropping his voice to that rough low register that bypassed his master’s brain and went straight from ears to crotch.

“No!” Norrell squeaked, but Childermass came straight round the desk and picked him up—he thought later, by the scruff of the neck—and sat down, pushing Norrell into his lap and roughly handling him. Then he _hit_ him—with his hand. It felt appallingly good, hot and heavy and pressing him down against Childermass. His toes curled, and he couldn’t stop himself rocking in place, just to have something against the ache in his prick.

“Thought so,” said Childermass. “But you’re not going to get the benefit of it fully dressed, are you?” He pushed Norrell up away from his lap—Norrell sobbed slightly at the lack of it—and undid breeches and small-clothes, pushing them down out of the way before firmly pulling Norrell back down.

“Six of the best, that’s traditional,” said Childermass. “I think we’ll have you count ‘em out.”

Then he brought his hand down on Norrell. It felt _much_ hotter and more focused on his naked bum. It hurt—of course it hurt—and of course he didn’t actually like being hurt—but it also ground his aching prick into Childermass’s lap so he moaned and wriggled to get more of that.

“I said, count it!”

“One,” said Norrell, rather shakily.

“All right,’ said Childermass, and gave him the next blow. That sting, right on top of the last, almost brought tears to his eyes, but he couldn’t stop wriggling in Childermass’s lap, the heat in front seeming to flow and mix with the heat behind.

“Two.”

“And keep still,” said Childermass.

“But I want…”

“This isn’t about what you want,” said Childermass, giving him the third firm smack. Norrell shuddered all over. His arse was throbbing, and he’d give _anything_ to be able to move.

“Three!’ said Norrell, hastily. Another deep, stinging blow—his arse must be red-raw by this time.

“And lift up. Don’t want you losing your…concentration.” Norrell made a helpless noise of disappointment, because maybe the pleasure of being pressed down in Childermass’s lap was what made him able to cope with all these new sensations of mixed pain and pleasure. He was not at all sure whether he could cope with being used this way without it.

“Four.” He was just trying not to shake apart into either climax or tears, because frankly both seemed equally likely by now. “Five!” (Unfairly close together, wasn’t giving him a moment to catch his breath).

Then Childermass paused for a minute or two and gave him a last hard blow and nearly—nearly—he was _right_ on the edge.

Childermass’s firm hands gripped his sore, aching buttocks and shoved him down—that last slow rolling grind did it, and the hands on him hurting so deliciously on his stinging arse, as he had a good, hard, noisy come just the way he needed it.

Childermass growled, “Mucky little bugger,” and shoved Norrell a bit to one side as soon as he’d finished—he could feel Childermass undo his own breeches and bring himself off, hard and fast.

“Now get us a wet cloth,” said Childermass, “since you got us dirty.”

Norrell still felt a bit wobbly in the legs, and half-inclined to argue, but it was a way to get out of this very embarrassing position, so he took it. He used the clean handkerchief he kept in his desk, and managed to find a jug of clean water on the windowsill (he always took pains to make sure that if there was a liquid in the room it was kept away from the books). He did a fair bit of scrubbing on both of them. According to the expression on Childermass’s face, it was inadequate. Well, he didn’t feel like caring about that.

Then he retreated to his room, kicked off his shoes and lay down for a bit, a hand over his eyes. He did not have to look up _this_ particular way the spell had gone sideways on him—he knew that already. It was that particular trouble he seemed to get into by preparing for all his magic so extremely comprehensively. In this case, he had not only added all the plants mentioned to symbolise human organs, but thought of various others as well, even if he could not think of any useful application for them. In this particular case, he had added the fungus _phallus impudicus._ If memory served, it was out of a simple sense of completeness in fashioning a man. He hadn’t followed the train of thought far enough to remember that the connotation ‘immodest’ or ‘shameless’ in the Latin implied something about the _state_ of the organ in question. 

In the afternoon, the gentler version of Childermass helped him take notes, and he felt relieved at how normal things seemed, because _this_ version was much more like the real one (he quashed his inconvenient memory’s attempt to provide him with examples of how the real one would argue back).

That night, he went to the storage cupboard in his dream, filled with the most virtuous determination to wind up the spell (however good it had felt to give way to his baser instincts). But he looked at the frames, and they seemed to him to be full of clean water and a sparkle of light. Evidently ‘activating’ the ‘Childermasses’ as he’d done the other night gave it a change of state. Norrell thought, indignantly, _Why does this always happen to me?_ because he always seemed to have good clear ideas about how to wind up a spell when it went wrong _before_ he got started on it, and then something would change because he’d performed the magic and he wouldn’t be able to see how to get out of it. He especially didn’t want it to have some strange side-effect on the _real_ Childermass, which was obviously why he left it still active. Nothing to do with some perverse desire to have Childermass smack his bottom—he’d never had a taste for that sort of thing. He hadn’t even enjoyed it, not really. Well, he _oughtn’t_ to have enjoyed it, therefore in a sensible and well-ordered world he _hadn’t._ So there.

 

 

The next morning, the gentle Childermass spent some time petting his hair while getting him ready. Which was fine, it seemed he rather liked to be groomed, made a fuss of, and it wasn’t going to show or look untidy once he’d covered his head properly. Except that after Childermass had stroked his hair for a while, Norrell opened his eyes and could see rather visible evidence that this version was also anatomically-complete, and rather interested. 

“Childermass?” he said, uneasily.

Then Childermass knelt down, gracefully, and undid his breeches. 

“Er, you do know…that you’re not required to…” said Norrell, except that the phrase ended in a gasp when Childermass kissed the tip of his prick.

“You don’t need to…” Childermass took the head of Norrell’s prick in his mouth, and said, “Mm?” around it as if to say, “I’ll just get started while you tell me what to do.”

“I said, I’m not forcing you to…” Norrell said, interspersed with intermittent moaning. This time, Childermass sucked quite a lot of the whole thing in, as if he’d had a fair bit of practice, and kept going.

“You don’t…” Childermass did.

“I won’t make you—oh, d—n you, _suck_ me!” gasped Norrell, and came down his throat, because heroic attempts at morality or not there were a few things no man could resist and Childermass seemed to have done all of them to his prick at once.

Childermass removed his mouth from its task, and lowered Norrell down in the chair, apparently realising he was in no state to keep on his feet. Then he said, “There you are, sir, all done,” and tidied him away into his clothes.

“Let me…” said Norrell, with an uneasy feeling he should be doing something to reciprocate.

“No need, sir. I find pleasure in serving you.” Norrell couldn’t work out whether or not to feel worried by that. It was so unlike the normal way Childermass behaved, except he had all sorts of memories of Childermass being kind, being considerate, that he often didn’t seem to notice at the time but realised later were showing the tenderest consideration for his wishes and the state of his nerves. But although he was kind, the real Childermass would never have said that. Would never have believed that service was its own reward. This made Norrell feel a _lot_ guiltier than the other one using him for his own pleasure.

“Childermass? Would you arrange with the other one to try to be discreet, because people are going to be rather upset with us…” ( _with me,_ he thought) “…if they find out there are now two of you?”

 

 

The next day, once he had had the gentle Childermass get him ready to face the day (with a strange sense of regretful relief that the episode with the fellatio was not repeated), he sat in the library and worked through the page-proofs of the magazine with Lascelles.

This was made much more awkward by Childermass (not the gentle one) leaning against the wall and listening to them, and offering all sorts of advice about how to make useful changes to the magazine. “You’ve got five put-downs in response to five letters,” he pointed out first. “You don’t want the whole tone to be so bitter you’ll put off the ordinary man who wants to learn about magic, sir. You don’t want to have a magazine called _The Friends of English Magic_ which is entirely about its enemies.”

Norrell decided the ‘sir’ was a sop to the overhearing ears of Lascelles. 

“Are you going to let your servant talk to you like that?” said Lascelles.

Norrell, still feeling rather guilty about using his ‘servant’ for his pleasure the day before, said, “My _man of business_ can speak freely in the interests of improving the magazine and the reputation of English magic. I daresay he’s sometimes been more useful than you have in that matter.”

“Well, _really!”_ said Lascelles. Apparently, the lack of being able to compete with Norrell in making himself unpleasant to people withdrew the main real draw he had to the scholarly discussion of Norrellite magic, because after striking a few pettish and irritable attitudes in various different chairs, and sighing heavily, he took himself off.

“Sometimes I need reminding of certain things to help me consider other people,” said Norrell, and looked Childermass in the eye. He knew that this Childermass, like the real one, might speak sharply to him sometimes, even mock him, but generally had his best interests at heart. In the late hours of the night, when Norrell found himself thinking through the events of the day and making sense of them, he often found that Childermass had spoken sense to him even if it hadn’t necessarily seemed so welcome at the time. Sometimes he wished Childermass was conveniently to hand at night where he could thank him for things that had flown straight over his head during the day.

This Childermass, who definitely had more of the stubbornness of the original, was full of good ideas. He let Norrell have his head when there was actually a danger to warn people off (although he often adjusted the wording); while he sometimes went so far as to suggest that magic might have practical applications in everything from agriculture to inventing. These suggestions were necessarily vaguely cryptic because it was a Norrellite magazine (generally references to particular magical books that were not openly available), but it was an improvement.

“You did very well, sir,” said Childermass, once they’d laid the magazine down in a half-finished state.

“Meaning I followed your suggestions, I suppose?” said Norrell.

“That, and you didn’t say one bitchy thing all day, except for to Lascelles. That’s _very_ good, sir. Reckon you deserve a reward.”

“I didn’t enjoy what you did yesterday,” said Norrell. “I don’t like being hit.”

Childermass’s mouth twitched. “You’re better at pretending than I would’ve thought,” he said.

“You _made_ me like it!” said Norrell, accusingly. “I never liked it before.” In point of fact, he thought, nobody had ever done it to him before. He felt no need to mention this, as it would only weaken his argument.

“Hold on a minute,” said Childermass. “Let’s just get the other one in. I’m sure we can manage something for you between us…ah, _that’s_ what you want, is it?”

Norrell refused to answer on the grounds it might incriminate him. The thought of them having him between them made his toes curl and his mouth (and prick) water. It was horribly perverse, and nothing to do with any of the things he had _thought_ he wanted an extra Childermass (or even two) for. He wanted it quite desperately.

He didn’t want to ask.

“I do not need any more of your nonsense, Childermass. I am going to bed,” he said, attempting to achieve a fine disdain which was thinner than paper; he could hear it curling up ragged at the edges of his speech.

“We shall be up directly,” said Childermass.

Norrell managed to strip very quickly without the help of anyone (a task of which none of his servants would have believed him capable, and which was only achieved at the expense of some of his clothes, which were irreparable). The weather being cold, he hurried into bed, just before Childermass rudely opened the door without so much as knocking.

The other one, of course, knocked, a few moments later.

The rough type had brought some oil, while the gentler type had brought a thicker scented salve. He chose the latter, being well out of practice at any of this (not that he was admitting to asking for any of it).

Rougher-Childermass made him spread himself and kneel up ready, and then slapped plenty of salve on and into him until he was gasping and pleading for attention. Then he said to the other, “All right, you. Give him some in front.”

Gentle-Childermass slid underneath him, and rubbed some of the salve between them, but did not seem to want to be fucked in turn. “I want to feel you plastered all over me, all hot and ready, sir,” he suggested, pulling Norrell down against him. “Then he can fill you up and just rock us together.”

Norrell said, “Yes. That.” He hadn’t the breath for much more, since the one behind was prying him open and shoving in, not particularly gently. He couldn’t figure out why the one behind seemed to have a prick about three times bigger given he was the same man as the one in front. But he kept forgetting how to measure because he was out-of-breath and all that lovely deep thrusting was pushing him down against the front Childermass who was nuzzling his neck. He filled his hands with one or other Childermasses’ long loose hair, trying to direct something of the ride they were all getting and giving, but he was almost shaking apart, especially when the one in front of him began to kiss him slowly and deeply. The one behind was making him push back a bit with every tongue-thrust he was getting, so he could thrust in time, and it was definitely like being fucked by the same man twice at once. He was shocked by his unruly ideas. He had a momentary thought of them both up his arse at once—it would break him in half!—and that thought stole the breath from his mouth so he _had_ to rear up and gasp and spend helplessly. That finished the other two, one ploughing his arse while the other warmed his front, and they fell in an untidy and rather sticky heap. He had to elbow them severely to get his breath back, and then explain that didn’t mean, “go away”. But they explained there wasn’t really enough room for everybody, and kissed him, and went off to their own beds.

The next day, he cast a spell on his own bed to make it big enough for three. This took a good deal of work, especially the making sure that the original size of the bed did not reassert itself in an inopportune moment.

After all that work, he was too tired to invite the Childermasses to bed for half a week, but they made up for it vigorously after that.

 

 

Norrell had got quite into the habit of enjoying the favours of both Childermasses in the late evenings. Occasionally, when he wanted a bit more direct stimulation on his cock, he’d fuck the gentle one while the other one fucked him, all of them going as hard as they could. His usual preference was for the sterner one to fuck him vigorously from behind while the gentler one pressed hotly against him in front, because the combination of that warm melting eagerness with a thorough fucking always drove him wild. He was in that incriminating position when Childermass came back from his journey and caught his master right in the middle of…himselves.

Childermass said, “How d’you explain that, then?” He sounded rather amused.

Top Childermass said, without breaking his stroke, “For some reason, you never figured out that a good hard fucking keeps him happy,” while the lower version said, “I think he missed you,” and Norrell had been so close—so _close_ —but he supposed he’d have to stop now the real one had come in, and all he could think to say was the blunt truth: “I want all three of you!”

The real one undid his breeches, apparently enjoying getting an eyeful of what he would look like duplicated and servicing his master very thoroughly, and Norrell watched him frig himself. “Lift up a bit,” Childermass demanded of Norrell, “I’m going to have to get it in your face—only place there’s room!” and Norrell shut his eyes and came, noisily and helplessly, as the real one splashed it right in his face. Uncivilised—filthy—absolutely _covered_ in it—he was sure he ought to feel ashamed—but right now he didn’t care!

The two ‘partial’ Childermasses finished and moved aside. The gentle one patted him on the head and said, “Sleep well, sir,” and the other one said, “That’s the end of us, then,” and slapped Norrell’s bum. Then both of them flickered oddly, and melted away.

Childermass said, “That’s how you amuse yourself when I’m away, is it? I mean, I did see something I didn’t understand in the cards, but I wouldn’t have guessed this.”

Norrell gave him a probably-quite-sheepish look, and said, “Would you believe that wasn’t what I was trying to do?” and told him the story of the duplication in detail. “It was probably a wrong thing, but I got a bit carried away, and when they started getting ideas, I thought, well, I’d never manage to get anywhere with you, so maybe I could have a bit of fun, get it out of my system before you came back…”

“And then you got a bit too keen?”

Norrell sighed. “I really do apologise for the way you found out.”

“And there I was thinking you enjoyed it,” said Childermass.

“Of course I did!” Norrell explained. “But that doesn’t mean I had the right to use you without your permission. I didn’t consciously realise that I was interested in you in that way, but those…versions of you, _they_ realised. And I wasn’t quite moral enough to say, no, I’ll stop now—I did try at one point, but couldn’t figure out how to.”

“They went away now,” said Childermass. “I think they think I’m up to the job.” He leered at Norrell cheerfully. _“I_ think I am, too. Reckon they wore you out, or could you go again?”

Norrell leant against him, and said, “Oh, I _shouldn’t…”_ thinking, _Mmm, yes…._

“But you’d like to?”

“Don’t think my arse could take more of a pounding tonight,’ he admitted.

“Want to rest a bit?” said Childermass.

Norrell sighed complainingly, and nudged Childermass’s hand to his lap. “Rather have another,” he whispered, half-ashamed, half-greedy, as Childermass began to rub him gently, and he sighed and lay still. Childermass didn’t make him work for it, didn’t even make him have to thrust, and he felt the sweetness of the pleasure gather and soak and finally overflow him and leave him softly exhausted.

“Well, that’s one of us done,” said Childermass, and Norrell said, “Put yourself between my thighs and do all the work,” and Childermass said, “You’re hard work, you are,” but not as if he minded too much.

With enough salve, and Childermass doing all the work, it was an absolute pleasure for Norrell to lie back and let himself be enjoyed. He asked for, and got, some gentle kissing, and he wove his hands into Childermass’s hair (a habit he was rapidly becoming addicted to), while Childermass thrust and gripped and finally spent himself with a long, low groan. Once he’d had his turn, it was time for sleep.

Norrell yawned. “I never answered the gentle one of you the first thing he asked me.”

“Mm?” said Childermass.

“He looked at me in the dream and said, ‘Do you need me?’” said Norrell.

“So?” said Childermass. _“Do_ you need me?”

Norrell slipped his hand into Childermass’s, and said, ”Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed writing this, although it took me two or three weeks. As well as the porn, there's quite a bit of world-building and Frankenstein-esque stuff with Norrell's little experiment, and the 'rough' side of Childermass with Romantic hero aspects (I just realised I wrote him almost with a trace of Heathcliff, but since I loathe Heathcliff for being a sociopathic abuser, it's merely the superficial stuff).


End file.
